


Hiraeth

by thetruediscopotato



Category: Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë
Genre: that time i wrote wuthering heights fanfiction for an english assignment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:25:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8343394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetruediscopotato/pseuds/thetruediscopotato
Summary: So I wrote this as an English assignment that I had to write when I read Wuthering Heights and it had to be written in the gothic style so here goes...
I'm bad at summaries so here are Catherine Earnshaw-Linton's final moments.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [s0r0hj0ne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0r0hj0ne/gifts).



The mansion stood alone, surrounded by vast gardens. The soft trickle of water from the fountain was the only sound that could be heard. A shadow passed across one of the two lit windows. And then suddenly, a scream.

Catherine screamed. Out of pain. Out of longing. Out of want. Her body writhed and convulsed upon contraction upon contraction. The deep red pooled near the Doctor’s hands as the screeching echoed through the house. Nelly, however, held herself to the side, eyes scanning the room. She rubbed her rough palms against the goose bumps running across her flesh, the only warmth in the room being the fire that was dying in the corner. The irony hit her like a carriage. 

The stoic woman’s walk on the moors had resulted in Nelly being late. The mistress needed her and now, of all times to have forsaken one’s duty, she had to be late. Trepidation overtook the nursemaid as the screaming subsided. All that could be heard was the gentle cry of the babe held to the nurse’s bosom. The house breathed a sigh of relief as the mother’s chest rose and fell, each breath resounding with the rhythm of life.

Catherine Linton, the name carrying the same vexatiousness of the wild wick slip she was when she ran the moors like a greyhound on the trail. The number of times that Nelly had had to clean her cuts and tend to the blue, black and purple; now she dealt with the pale. Catherine lay back, her mahogany hair starkly contrasting with the white sheets, the loose linens clung to her sagging bones and melded with the sheets she lay on. Suddenly, her eyes widened and she cried to hold her own child, her arms aquiver, desperately attempting to hold her own weight. Nelly handed the bundle, and as the cold skin pressed against the warmth of the baby girl, an ineffable ecstasy made the mother resemble the cherub’s chastity of her youth. The colour flushed back into her cheeks and she cooed and kissed the babe, holding her closer and closer with the home’s heavily bated breath.

Catherine watched the baby reach forward, almost reaching for her and she thought… She thought and the tears and memories came down like a rainstorm. Her dalliances with Heathcliff, the gypsy boy her father brought out of pity, and Edgar, the once spoiled boy she would never have associated with. The sheer infatuation that she had felt for both. She and Heathcliff, contrasting each other with his dark and her light, though the same in the manner with which they resembled a night sky. They were one and the same and he would do her will, he would dote on her and his serious demeanour and constant expostulations warmed her heart; but it was not a fierce love. Not a love which would last eons past their passing. It was never love, not in that passionate sense of the word, it was the love of two people who simply grew up in each other’s presence. It was affection and no more. 

And Edgar, her husband… He never wooed her, he courted her. He impressed upon her during the five weeks at the Grange, where she was now, that it was unbecoming of her to be wild. It was unbecoming to swear. It was unbecoming of a young lady with a good upbringing. She was unbecoming. But she grew to enjoy his company. She had known that Edgar would keep her content. Contemptuous as he was, he had the means to keep her life a perfect world where naught that was unbecoming would hinder her again. She and Heathcliff were the same person, but being one would never keep her comfortable, at ease… Edgar was never the sharpest or the wittiest, he was never a match for her own cunning. But his need for her acceptance, for her brought her a sense of bliss. 

The mother’s eyes scanned for her childhood friend, and now her child’s nurse. Nelly… She had always been there...  
Catherine caught her friend’s eyes, and, with an air of nonchalance chided, “Nelly, you needn’t look such a downer… It’s unbecoming” – coughs racked her body – “for-.”  
The hue of death then took over the rose as the baby once again began its cries, grabbing at her mother. Nelly quickly snatched the baby away to calm her, but couldn’t help but see the ethereal peace that remained when her friend had gone.

“- a lady of your calibre,” Nelly finished as she stared down at the girl she grew up with.

***

Nelly held the candle and kept the babe close to her heart, the stained glass and stone walls holding her inside. She stood, hoping and praying that Heaven would be the hiraeth that her Catherine Earnshaw always wished for.


End file.
